The Hunt Ball Mystery Part 23

"I don't suppose we are wanted," Kelson said quietly to Gifford; "let's go for a turn round the garden. I wonder where Muriel has got to."

They found Miss Tredworth on the lawn. "I am waiting for Edith," she said.

"We'll stroll on and Gifford can bring Miss Morriston after us," Kelson suggested, and the lovers moved away, leaving Gifford, much to his satisfaction, waiting for Edith Morriston.

In a few minutes she made her appearance. Gifford mentioned the arrangement and they strolled off by the path the others had taken.

It seemed to Gifford that his companion's manner was rather abnormal; unlike her usual cold reserve there were signs of a certain suppressed excitement.

"I hope," she said, "that Major Freeman and his people are satisfied with our discovery that the marks on Muriel's dress and mine came there by accident."

"Evidently quite convinced," Gifford answered.

"That's well," she responded with a rather forced laugh. "It was rather too bad to suspect us, on that evidence, of knowing anything about the affair."

"I don't suppose for a moment they did," Gifford a.s.sured her.

"I don't know," the girl returned. "Anyhow it was rather an embarra.s.sing, not to say painful, position for us to be in. But that is at an end now."

Nevertheless Gifford could tell that she was not so thoroughly relieved as her words implied.

"Completely," he declared. "You have heard of the new piece of evidence?"

he added casually.

For a moment she stopped with a start, instantly recovering herself.

"No; what is that?" in a tone almost of unconcern.

Gifford told her of the statement made by the country girl and its corroboration in the finding of the rope. As he continued he felt sure that the story was gripping his companion more and more closely. At last she stopped dead and turned to him with eyes which had in them intense mystification as well as fear.

"Mr. Gifford, do you believe that story?"

"I see no reason for disbelieving it," he answered quietly. "It is practically the only conceivable solution of the mystery of the locked door."

"Surely--" she stopped, checking the vehement objection that rose to her lips. "This girl," she went on as though searching for a plausible argument, "is it not likely that she was mistaken? We know what these country people are. And she could not have seen very clearly."

"But," Gifford argued gently, "her statement is confirmed by the finding of the rope."

Edith Morriston was thinking strenuously, desperately, he could see that. The words she spoke were but mechanical, the mere froth of a seething brain. Yet her splendid self-command--and he recognized it with admiration--never deserted her, however supreme the struggle may have been to retain it.

A seat was by them; she went across the path to it and sat down. Gifford saw that she was deadly pale.

"I fear this wretched business is upsetting you, Miss Morriston," he said gently. "Let me run to the house and fetch something to revive you."

She made a gesture to stay him, and by an effort seemed to shake off the threatening collapse. "No, no," she said; "please don't. It is very stupid of me, but these repeated shocks are rather trying. You see one has never had any experience of the sort before."

"It was more than stupid of me to blunder into the story," Gifford said self-reproachfully. "But it never occurred to me--"

"No, no; of course not," she responded. "And, after all, I am bound to hear all about it sooner or later. Sit down and tell me your opinion of the affair. Supposing the girl was not mistaken who do you think the person seen escaping from the window could have been?"

"That is difficult to say."

"A thief, no doubt."

"That is a natural conclusion."

"Have the police any idea?"

"Not that I know of. I should say decidedly no definite idea."

"Or Mr. Henshaw?"

"Whatever Mr. Henshaw's ideas may be he keeps them to himself."

Miss Morriston checked the remark she had seemed about to make, and for a few minutes there was an awkward silence. Gifford broke it.

"I am so sorry that I have been unable to get any hint of his intentions.

Believe me, it has not been for want of trying. But the man, for reasons best known to himself, seems determined to remain inscrutable."

The girl was staring in front of her. "Yes," she responded, with a catch of her breath; "that is evident. But it does not much matter. I know you have tried your best to do what I was foolish enough to ask you. And now please do not think any more of it. In my ignorance of the man's character I set you an impossible task. All I can do now is to thank you for your sympathy and devotion."

Her tone pained him horribly. "I hope, Miss Morriston," he replied warmly, "you are not asking me to end my devotion."

She gave a little bitter laugh. "Seeing that it is useless I have no right to ask its continuance," she replied almost coldly, "nor to expect you to involve yourself in my--in our worries."

"But if I ask to be allowed that privilege?" he urged.

She shook her head. "No, no, my friend," she insisted, with less warmth than the words implied, "it can lead to no good and would be a mistake.

Let the man alone. To involve yourself with him can bring you nothing but trouble. Promise me you will take no further heed of this unhappy business."

She turned to him as she spoke the last words, and there seemed less trouble in her face than in his. For at his heart there was a sickening fear and suspicion of what the words portended.

"I can't promise that," he objected.

"But I ask you; it is my wish," she returned with a touch of command.

"For my sake, or yours?" he rejoined.

"For both. Give me your promise. You must if we are to remain friends."

Her look and the fascination in her voice seemed to pull the very heart out of him.

"You are asking a cruelly hard thing of me," he replied, with a tremor in his voice. "I don't understand--"

"No, you don't understand," she interrupted quickly. "It is enough to know that you have taken a girl's foolish commission too seriously, so seriously as to run the risk of making things even worse than they threatened to be. Now I ask you to leave well alone."

"If it is well," he said doubtfully.

"Of course. Why should it not be?" she rejoined, in a not very convincing tone. "Now I shall rely on you--and I am sure it will not be in vain--to respect my wishes. Things seem to be in a horrible muddle," she added with a rather dreary laugh, "but let's hope they will right themselves before long."